Hsipaw

"Howareyouandyourfamily?
Asformeiamquitewellandhappy.
Ialwaysrememberyouandhopeyouareingoodhealth.”

There's a classroom across the street from Mr. Charles' guesthouse. Every morning at six o' clock we are awoken by the sound of many children's voices repeating the same three phrases over and over again. Since the lungs of a pint-sized human can only hold so much oxygen, the chorus usually  falters in the middle of the third sentence. The last couple of syllables make a mad dash for the finish line, after which there's a collective gasp for air and a fresh start from the top.

In the mind of a Burmese school teacher, the English must be a freckled, bucktoothed robot species, its language only useful for monotonous chitchat. I'm sure these youngsters are being drilled for the benefit of us tourists. Yet I wonder how things might play out when they meet a Canadian or Bulgarian who doesn't stick to the routine.

“Howareyouandyourfamily?”
“Not good, really. I just got a phone call from my mother. She broke her hip falling off a stairmaster, so I'm trying to get back home as soon as possible.”
“Asformeiamquitewellandhappy.”
“Well, that's nice. Would you mind telling me how I can get to the train station?”
“Ialwaysrememberyouandhopeyouareingoodhealth.”

Speed dating

Hsipaw is all about trekking and Mr. Charles represents the premier source for experienced guides. In the evenings his guesthouse offers a sort of speed dating service, so tourists can hook up with the right chaperon for a one-, two- or three-day adventure. The thing is, we want to get to Namshan, a small village all the way up in the Shan hills, and walk back from there. This should take four days, including the journey by bus to our starting point, but there is no one willing to take us.

So we decide on a different approach. Back home, someone had told me that we could buy a map of the region from a local book dealer known under the revealing alias Mr. Book. When we locate the venerable man in his ramshackle stall and ask him if he sells maps, he simply tells us no, he doesn't do that kind of thing anymore.

Intrigued, we decide to keep poking around. Eventually, one of Mr. Charles' guides breaks the omerta and informs us that we can take the bus to Namshan, check into the state-owned guesthouse  and look for a guide there. The bus leaves somewhere between ten and twelve the next morning and we should find ourselves in the company of at least four other stubborn tourists. (Check the Thorntree forum for discussions on the tourism politics in Hsipaw).

Medieval buffaloes

Hannelore and I spend our time in tourist limbo taking naps on the balcony of the guesthouse, watching HBO in a nearby restaurant and exploring the surrounding countryside. Well, the exploring is mostly left to me.

On the outskirts of Hsipaw are many smaller villages of the Shan minority. Apparently, a Shan settlement is distinguishable from the hamlets of other ethnicities by many subtle differences. Whatever they may be, I am not able to spot them. It all looks wonderfully medieval to me, from the mud-crusted buffaloes working the fields to the women washing clothes by the river.

There are birds in the colours of butterflies and butterflies in the colours of birds. The most wondrous of all are these herbs (Mimosa pudica) that fold themselves up at the slightest touch. This defense mechanism is supposed to keep them from being eaten by animals, but it fails to protect them from my loitering fingers. Muhahahaa, tarts!